


Fault

by Xie



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: Future, Short
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-11
Updated: 2017-09-11
Packaged: 2018-12-26 17:58:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12064134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xie/pseuds/Xie
Summary: It wasn't your fault.





	Fault

  
Author's notes:

This is the first story I wrote for the hurt/comfort challenge at [**qaf_challenges**](http://community.livejournal.com/qaf_challenges/) . It's a revised and expanded deleted scene from Risks. VERY revised, actually. Graphics by [**roc_abs**](http://roc-abs.livejournal.com/) .  
Thank you to my beta, [**gmta_nz**](http://gmta-nz.livejournal.com/)

* * *

  
****

**Brian's POV**  
  
I pushed Justin against the wall. He looked at me, all flushed, dark eyed and breathing fast. My cock got even harder inside my jeans.  
  
He'd been on edge all night, gotten higher than he usually did, danced dirtier than he usually did, and let me lead him more than he usually did.  
  
I knew he was stressed over the deadline for his next show. I knew his agent was in Europe, that he didn't like her assistant, and that he'd been falling asleep in his studio more nights than he'd been coming to bed that week.  
  
I knew there weren't any new paintings.  
  
So I let him get fucked up. I let him dance until sweat was pouring off him. I let him follow me into the backroom, not even trying to go to the VIP room instead. I thought it was what he wanted, the black concrete walls, blue lights, me pulling his shirt off and throwing it on the floor.  
  
He turned and faced the wall, and put his palms against it, level with his shoulders. He spread his legs apart, and rested his cheek against the wall.  
  
I wasn't sure what he was thinking. Since we'd been doing it raw, I'd stopped fucking him in public at Babylon, but while my mind was still trying to figure out what Justin wanted, my hands were undoing his jeans, pushing them down, and reaching under him to press behind his balls. I let my knuckle rest on his hole, spreading his cheeks with my other hand. He murmured, and shifted his legs apart even more.  
  
I left him there for a minute, blond and pale and spread against the wall, and got some lube from a shelf a few feet away. When I came back, he'd folded his arms and buried his face in them. I stepped up close behind him, and reached down again, spreading his ass open with one hand, slipping a lubed finger into his tight hole with the other.  
  
Justin arched back and wriggled against my finger, so I slid a second one in next to the first, moving them around inside him, finding the little bump of his prostate and fluttering my touch over it. I kept the pressure on his prostate erratic, still trying to be sure what Justin wanted, still feeling that edginess and need coming off him in waves.  
  
I leaned against him hard, my cock pressing into the small of his back, my fingers still deep inside him, covering him and rubbing against him, knowing my jeans were rough on his bare skin. I could feel his ass pulsing around my fingers, the way his breath caught every time I stroked the sweet spot inside him. I heard him start to say my name, and then his breath caught. "Brian… more. Give me one more."  
  
I felt heat flush through me at how frantic he sounded. I slid in a third finger, bending my thumb and pinky down and twisting my three middle fingers together inside him, bumping against the muscled ring of his hole with my knuckles. I couldn't reach his prostate anymore, so I pulled on his hip with my free hand, and he moved back against me, bending his back more, still with his face in his crossed arms, against the concrete wall.  
  
And then I started to press my knuckles against the ring of his ass. Justin bore down hard against them, and after a minute of resistance and pressure and tightness, I felt them move inside.  
  
He gave a loud moan when my fingers found his prostate again, and he jerked back against my hand.  
  
He brought one hand down off the wall and felt behind him, fumbling at my forearm. "Brian, one more, put one more in…" but I didn't. I already had half my hand inside him, and there were times at home in our own bed when I needed half a bottle of lube just to do what I was doing to him now, against a wall in a dark room  
  
He shifted back again. I felt him open and then clamp hard on the base of my knuckles. I kept fluttering my touch over his prostate, feeling the spasming of his ass become more regular, the rhythm of his breath even out. I let myself sag against him, my cock throbbing with need, pressing against his back. He was sweating and shaking and jerking on my hand, and I felt his ass clench so hard on my knuckles I had to grit my teeth. Justin made a sound that was half yelp, half groan, and I knew he was coming. I could feel him shuddering against me, and all around my hand.  
  
His ass relaxed its grip for a second, and then it clenched again. He made a sharp noise. I froze. Everything tightened even harder than before. Justin moved his right hand back again, grabbed my wrist, and started to move my arm back. I didn't let him.  
  
"Justin, stop it. You have to relax, or it's going to hurt."  
  
"It hurts, get out of me…" he was breathing hard, and he was covered in sweat.  
  
"Relax, relax, relax… Justin, take a deep breath and relax. If I pull out like this, it's going to hurt you." I was stroking his back and made my voice as gentle as I could, but for a minute, it didn't work. But finally I felt him take a deep breath, and as he let it out, I gently eased my knuckles out of him.  
  
The spasming started again, and he moaned, but I kept soothing him and telling him to relax, as I slowly worked my other fingers out of him.  
  
I looked down at my hand when I reached down to pull his jeans back up, and saw something dark and shiny on my the back of my hand, smeared across my knuckles.  
  
I didn't say anything, just helped him pull up his jeans, then turned him around and let him lean against the wall. He kept his hips out, so only his shoulders were touching it, and licked his lips. I got a towel and wiped my hand, then cleaned Justin off and fastened his pants.  
  
We went outside. I kept the towel, and looked at it in the brighter lights near the bar. It was smeared with blood.  
  
**Justin's POV**  
  
All the way home, I tried not to let Brian know how much my ass hurt. He hadn't said anything at all, but when I flinched getting in the car, his lips had tightened. I was still too fucked up to figure out what to say to him, but there probably wasn't anything he'd have heard that night, anyway.  
  
When we got home, he kept his hand on my back and just pushed me upstairs. He turned on the shower, and stripped off my clothes, then his. He made me drink some water, and when I was done, I set the water bottle down on the counter.  
  
I noticed something white on the floor with his clothes. It was the towel from the backroom supply at Babylon. I wondered why he'd brought it home, then I realized there was blood on it. Not a lot, hardly any.  
  
Brian was fiddling with the water in the shower, and I went and got in with him. I let the water beat down on me. When Brian started soaping me, I tried to relax into it. My ass was still aching and it stung when the water hit it. It was still cramping a little, too.  
  
I took a deep breath. "Can you look?"  
  
He jerked a short nod, so I turned around and put my hands on the tile. Brian gently spread my ass open, and I winced when his fingers brushed near my hole.  
  
Brian let the water run down on me for a few more seconds. I dropped my head down and saw a faint trace of blood in the water running down my leg. He didn't say anything about it, just pressed the flat of his hand against my lower back for a second. He took a washrag and very softly cleaned me off, then looked again.  
  
"It's okay, you're not bleeding anymore, that was just some blood that had dried."  
  
Just then another cramp hit me, and I bent my knees a little.  
  
"Do you want a valium or something?" He still had his hand on my back.  
  
I shook my head. "I can't stand valium after E. It makes me incredibly morose. I'll just take some aspirin."  
  
Brian turned off the water, opened the shower door, and pulled a towel inside. He started drying me off, first my hair, and then my body. "Aspirin doesn't do shit for muscle cramps."  
  
"It'll stop soon." He finally got me as dry as he could, then he got out of the shower, got another towel, and dried himself off. I went and pulled on some sweatpants, flinching a little when I pulled them up, and a clean t-shirt, and got into bed.  
  
Brian came out, two aspirin in his hand. I took them, and drank a lot of water. He shut off the light and curled up against me in bed. I was still half-high, and my ass was sore as hell.  
  
And there was still a pile of painted-over canvases in my studio, full of nothing I could stand to look at.  
  
When I woke up in the morning, Brian was still asleep, and my head was on his shoulder. I shifted to lie closer to him, but a sharp pinch in my ass reminded me we'd gotten a little carried away the night before. I moved again, and thought, more than a little.  
  
I slid out from under his arm, and went into the bathroom. I pissed, then stood in front of the mirror, twisting around, holding my cheeks open, trying to see my hole.  
  
"Let me do that." It was Brian, standing naked in the doorway.  
  
I wordlessly let him look. He stood up after a minute. "Maybe we should put something on it, it's pretty red. But it looks okay. There's no more blood."  
  
My eyes went to where the towel had lain the night before, but it was gone.  
  
He got out some ointment, and handed me the tube. I dabbed it on my ass, wincing just a little. He was pissing and might not have seen it, I didn't know.  
  
I crawled back into bed, and fell back to sleep.  
  
When I woke up the second time, Brian wasn't there. I didn't think he'd gotten in bed again. I got up and pulled on some socks, and went downstairs. I stopped in the kitchen for some coffee, and went into my studio. I sat at the desk, staring across the room at a blank canvas sitting on my easel. I knew what I wanted to paint on it. I was afraid to try.  
  
Brian was at his computer when I came in, and he didn't even look up, just grunted in my general direction. I sat down on the sofa, grabbed my laptop off the coffee table, and checked my email.  
  
The rest of the day went on like that. He talked to me, but not about anything. He handed me things if I asked for them, he let me use the computer when I asked, and he responded when I asked if he wanted to order pizza for dinner. But he avoided looking at me, and when I tried to bring up the night before, he didn't answer. I didn't go near my studio.  
  
That night Brian got into bed with me, and I rolled into his arms like I always did. Usually I didn't stay sleeping next to him, because Brian was a restless sleeper, and a hot one, but I almost always fell asleep that way. I could count the nights we didn't fuck before we fell asleep on my fingers, even after all these years.  
  
And that was one of them.  
  
The next day was Monday, and Brian went back to work. I tried to go back to work too, but all I did was sit on the floor, staring at nothing. I was worried about the deadline for my next show, and about my hand. I wanted to talk to my agent, but she was in the wrong time zone for me to call.  
  
I'd been through times like this before, when nothing I painted looked like what I saw in my mind. I never knew if they'd pass whether I kept painting or not, because for some reason, I couldn't stop, even though I destroyed everything I created as soon as it was dry.  
  
I knew it was stupid, but I always worried that somehow my mind and my hand couldn't communicate anymore, and that was why I couldn't paint what I imagined. I'd made myself ask my neurologist once, and she'd looked at me blankly, not even understanding the question, then told me that there was no reason to expect the effects of the brain damage to get worse with time. If anything, she'd said, they would get better.  
  
So I ignored the constant worry that I'd never get my art back, and painted through it. And that night, before I went upstairs to Brian, I left a canvas drying on the easel that I knew I'd paint over in the morning.  
  
**Brian's POV**  
  
I was lying in bed in the dark, when Justin came upstairs. I shut my eyes, and he didn't turn the bedroom lights on. He went into the bathroom, and a few minutes later came out, then got into bed next to me, all in the dark.  
  
But he obviously knew I wasn't asleep, because after a minute, he started talking.  
  
"You know what hurts worse than this pain in my ass?"  
  
"What's that?" I didn't open my eyes.  
  
"You shutting me out because you think it's your fault."  
  
I just lay there.  
  
"I wanted you to do it, I asked you to do it, and no offense, Brian, but it's my ass. I'm the one who gets to say what happens to it."  
  
Of course it was his ass. That wasn't the point. "Justin, when you were still tricking, would you have gone into the backroom with a guy you didn't know, when you were that high?"  
  
"Of course not."  
  
"Would you have gotten that high if you were out alone?"  
  
"No."  
  
"Would you have begged a guy you didn't know to get half his hand inside you in the backroom?"  
  
"No."  
  
"Then why did you with me?"  
  
He sighed. "This is a trick question."  
  
"Answer me."  
  
"Obviously, the only answer is that I trust you, and so I got incredibly high, extremely horny, and wanted you to get half your hand inside me in the backroom, probably without enough lube and apparently a little too quickly. But if I say that, it makes it your fault, because the only part of that you'll hear is that I trust you."  
  
Smart boy. "That's the only part that answers my question."  
  
He sounded exasperated. "So, fine, we're both right. It's my ass, and therefore my call what happens to it. And you got a little carried away, and so I got hurt. Believe me, it's not the first time you've made my ass hurt. And the blood is nothing, Brian, you know rectal tissue can tear easily…"  
  
"Jesus, Justin, I think I know all about rectal tissue, for fuck's sake. I've been fucking guys since you were in kindergarten."  
  
He sat up and turned on the light. "Then stop acting like it's the end of the fucking world. Christ, I'd rather you shoved your fist up my ass on the dance floor than get into another one of these extended periods of self-flagellation. Which, by the way, you then take out on me."

I shoved my hand through my hair. "Fine, can we go to sleep now?"  
  
Justin rolled his eyes, but he turned off the light and lay back down. I turned onto my side and closed my eyes, and the next thing I knew, he was nestling against me. Justin never did play fair. He was nuzzling my throat, and stroking my chest, his fingers tickling and pinching at my nipples. He pressed on my hip, and I rolled onto my back, letting him slide down and kiss my stomach and my thighs.  
  
He was sucking my cock, his cheeks hollowed, his throat swallowing around it, when I felt his finger at my asshole. I relaxed, breathed out, and let it slide in. He rubbed my prostate while he slid the tight ring of his mouth up and down on my cock, and I came so hard, and so much, he couldn't even swallow it all.  
  
I licked his face clean, then traced down his chest with my tongue, licking the head of his cock until it was shiny and dark. I lapped at the precome leaking out of his slit, and gently squeezed and pulled on his balls while I sucked his cock. When he came, I tugged down on his balls. He bucked into my mouth and groaned my name. I smiled around him while he shot into my throat.  
  
I crawled up his body and let him kiss the last bits of come out of my mouth, then I lay down behind him, pulling him into the curve of my body. My cock was lying against the crack of his ass. I had one leg thrown over him and my arms around him. His hair brushed against my mouth.  
  
He sighed. "Everything I'm painting is shit."  
  
I didn't move for a minute, then I pulled him closer. "It'll pass."  
  
"I never know."  
  
"I know. Just keep painting."  
  
He snorted. "It's not like I can stop. It's just that everything sucks."  
  
"It won't last."  
  
He shifted restlessly in my arms. "You don't know that."  
  
"I do know it. And so do you."  
  
He didn't answer that, just sighed again, and relaxed a little. "I guess."  
  
I kissed his hair, and we fell asleep.


End file.
